


Untrue Romance

by cactusnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusnell/pseuds/cactusnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly gives up on love and romance.  What can Sherlock do about it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untrue Romance

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from mychakk over on fanfiction.net. Thanks!

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were sitting at a corner table in St. Bart’s canteen, sipping rather bad coffee. John had grown accustomed to the brew, having downed gallons of it while making rounds at the institution. Sherlock greatly preferred the stuff Molly Hooper brewed up in her lab, not that he’d ever tell her that. He had grown accustomed to all things Molly, in fact. Not that he’d ever tell her that, either.

“John, have you noticed anything different about Dr. Hooper lately?”, the detective asked suddenly.

“Noooooo,” John answered slowly, “What do you mean?”

“I can’t put my finger on it, exactly, but there is something a bit off. Her smile…”

“Molly smiles all the time, Sherlock.”

“Yes, but…”

“Look, if you haven’t figured it out, how am I supposed to know?!”, John said, rather dismissively. But there was something in his tone, the way he would not meet Sherlock’s eyes, which led the detective to believe that he know more than he was letting on.

“Tell me, John!”

“It’s nothing, really. It’s just that Molly talks to Mary, and Mary talks to me, but I’m not allowed to talk to you, evidently…”

“About what, John. If it concerns my pathologist, it concerns me!”

“See! That’s just it, Sherlock. She’s not YOUR pathologist. She’s a pathologist, who works at Bart’s, who works with you, on occasion. You can’t go around claiming ownership, just because you’re a selfish git who…”

“What is going on, John?”

“Haven’t you noticed how long it’s been since Molly has had a boyfriend? Somebody interested in her, and vice versa? Or even a date, Sherlock! According to my Mary, she’s given up…”

“And rightfully so. Her taste in boyfriends is atrocious!”

“Only by your standards, Sherlock. You’ve deduced every one of them out of her life! And why have you done it? So you can keep her all to yourself! At your beck and call. Midnight access to the morgue. Clandestine delivery of body parts. Can’t you go mesmerize someone else…”

“I haven’t taken advantage of Dr. Hooper for quite some time now, John. We’re friends. Good friends. We socialize…”

“I know, Sherlock. You’re always at her flat. When you get bored, you go see Molly. When you’re hungry, you go see Molly. Hell, I bet you even bring your laundry…”

“Mrs. Hudson was beginning to bristle a bit about my suggestions for improving her washing techniques…”

“Sherlock, you’re a bloody selfish git! You know it, and I know it. And Molly, despite the fact that she has loved you for years, knows it, too! She has always known you were not interested in her, in any capacity other than a friend. And she always tried to to move on. But now, it seems she’s given up. She is no longer convinced that she will find someone else. She’s decided that love, and romance, and all it entails is just a fairy tale, and she’s no fairy princess. How many times have you expounded on the belief that sentiment is nonsense? That caring is a disadvantage, a weakness?”

“Molly would never believe that, John. She has always been…”

“Bright, and sunny, and optimistic, Sherlock? Does she seem that way to you lately? Does it make you happy that your attitude has finally worn off on ‘your’ pathologist? Can you really see Molly living out her days alone? No husband? No kids? Because, according to Mary, that ‘s what she intends to do. She says she’s content with her life, happy in her work, and that’s all she needs.”

“Perhaps it is, John.”

“Really? You can’t possibly believe that, you git! She’s thinking about getting another cat, for god’s sake. And we all know that’s the first step towards becoming that lonely old cat lady in the smelly flat with a bunch of felines underfoot…”

“A clowder…”

“What?”

“A group of cats is called a clowder, John. Or, sometimes, a clutter, or a glaring, or even a pounce. Younger cats, in groups, are called a litter, or kindle, or, intriguingly, an intrigue…”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John sighed. “I wasn’t supposed to mention any of this to you, of course. Molly spoke to Mary in confidence, and Mary told me because, well, she’s concerned. She sees the way Molly looks at our Claire, and hates the idea that she’s given up on love, and romance, and happily ever after. My wife, the former hitwoman, is a big believer in happily ever after, believe it or not. And she wants her friends to be happy, not just content.” The doctor sighed once more, took a last sip of his now cold coffee, and rose to leave. “So, I suppose, that’s what you’ve sensed different about Molly lately. I wish we could fix it, but I don’t suppose we can. Maybe someone will come along to change her mind. I hope he does. And if you do anything to interfere, I’ll punch you in the nose. Again. And tell my wife. Heaven only knows what she’ll do to you!”

Sherlock Holmes sat at the table, alone with his thoughts. He had done this. After years of preaching his philosophy of “alone protects me”, and “sentiment is for losers”, he had made one convert too many. True, he felt safer on his own. And sentiment made him feel slightly weaker, slightly out of control, but that was because he was such a stranger to the more tender emotions. Molly certainly was not. Molly had grown to maturity dealing with sentiment, emotions, every step of the way. Unlike him, her caring, her kindness, her generosity had not only benefitted herself, but those around her. And now, thanks to his misanthropic attitude, she was willing to settle for a life less than what she deserved. He would fix this. He would find someone fully deserving of his pathologist, someone who could live up to his own high standards.

Sherlock went back to Baker Street, determined to formulate a plan to ensure Molly’s happiness. The first part of this plan involved finding her perfect mate. Sherlock, being a scientist by nature, did not subscribe to the whole “soulmate” proposition. The idea that there was one person out there who could make Molly completely happy was ludicrous. There must be dozens, perhaps hundreds, in the city of London alone. He just had to put her together with one of them, and let nature take its course. So the great detective went about detecting. He hacked into any number of dating sites, aided by technology provided by his brother’s government connections, however unknowing they were. He vetted hundreds of candidates, finally narrowing it down to a handful. His criteria were very precise. The man must be attractive, but not intimidatingly so. Intelligent, but then again, not outshine his Molly. Not overly jealous or possessive, as Sherlock would want to retain his visitation right at St. Bart’s, as well as his claim on Molly’s attentions. KInd, outgoing, and altruistic, just as Molly was. It took a while, but Sherlock Holmes soon found a perfect candidate.

The man he decided on was one Jason Wilcox. Mr. Wilcox was a primary school teacher with a fondness for children. Sherlock had vetted him through his brother Mycroft, who had merely shaken his head in consternation when his younger brother informed him of his plan, calling him a “complete and total ass.” Mr. Wilcox, as it turns out, had been more than amenable to Sherlock’s plans, especially after receiving Molly Hooper’s curriculum vitae. He had been living alone with his mother for too many years now, and was longing to settle down and start a family of his own. The fact that Molly was ready to do the same, at least according to Sherlock, made him overlook many of the oddities of the situation. He was willing to try anything to accomplish his goal, as was the detective.

If Molly wanted romance, Sherlock was willing to give her romance, as long as it didn’t involve himself. The first step in this was concocting a “meet-cute” scenario, just like in the movies. Sherlock had arranged for Jason to wait at his pathologist’s favorite coffee shop around the corner from Bart’s, knowing that she would turn up at some point during the mid-morning hours. Molly favored a very specific kind of coffee. a “half-caf, half-fat, vanilla bean latte with extra hot chocolate sauce, no bubbles, please.” Sherlock didn’t even know what that was, but for some reason, the barista always did. It was own simple black coffee that threw them for a loop. He made sure that Jason had memorized this order, and developed a taste for it, then set his plan into action. Wilcox was to wait for Molly to make an appearance, then maneuver himself into line just in front of her, and order the same complicated concoction. He settled back, hidden in a corner, to watch his plan unfold.

Jason made his way to the order station, placed the order, and managed to look surprised as the barista nodded at the attractive woman behind him in line, and asked, ”Do you two know each other?”

“No,” he replied innocently. “But perhaps we should,” he said, glancing at Molly with a smile. “Why?”

Molly giggled a bit. “Because you just gave Jimmy here my exact order, right down to the no bubbles option! Perhaps you’re psychic.”

“Maybe you’re the psychic one. Tell me, do you talk to dead people?”

Molly Hooper giggled again. “I do actually. But, fortunately, they don’t answer!”

Sherlock watched as the two engaged in conversation, operation “meet-cute” supposedly a success. He observed the couple. Jason was short. He had selected someone short, not wanting Molly to have to strain her back when she stood on tiptoe to kiss him. Sherlock found that he did not want to consider the possibility that there were many and varied positions from which to kiss someone. The upright and vertical option was the only one his mind would entertain, for some reason. Anything else made him, um, uncomfortable. The talked for a few moments while their drinks were prepared. Molly finally handed the man her mobile, and he typed something into it, probably his number. The detective was a bit disappointed when Molly did not invite him to join her at a table. But, she had never been an easy pick-up, he considered with a small smile. He was very proud of himself as Jason took the initiative, walking with Molly around the corner, escorting her back to work. Well done, he thought, as he gave himself a mental pat on the back.

For the next five days, Sherlock maintained contact with the young man, hoping to hear that Molly had called him. But she had not. Sherlock was disappointed to hear that. If Molly would only get to know him, she would surely be attracted. He was perfect for her. Or as close as anyone could come, in Sherlock’s eyes, at least. By the fifth day, Jason, who had been truly smitten, was becoming a bit distraught.

“Mr. Holmes, can you tell me, what are Molly’s favorite flowers?”

Sherlock found himself a bit taken aback by the man’s use of Molly’s first name. It seemed a bit too familiar, at least on such short acquaintance. But this was the man Sherlock had chosen to court her, marry her, give her children, and live happily ever after with her. He did realize that, if all this were to come to pass, Jason Wilcox would eventually come to call her “Molly”. Sherlock simply did not like the way it had rolled so easily off his lips.

“Daisies are her favorites, Mr. Wilcox. Are you planning to win her over with flowers?”

“Hopefully! I’m not giving up, you know. I felt a connection, something between us…”

“Take it slowly. Molly prefers subtlety to steanrollong tactics…”

“I sensed that, Mr. Holmes. I sensed a lot of things about Molly…” Again!! Her first name! “She’s been lonely, without friends, or companionship…”

“Not exactly…”

“She is not appreciated by those around her…”

“I appreciate her, certainly!”

“She needs someone to take care of her…”

“Molly Hooper can take care of herself very competently, Mr. Wilcox! I, myself, can speak for the power of her right hook!”

“Surely, you’re kidding. Molly strikes me as a delicate flower, in need of sunshine, and someone to watch over her, guide her choices, plan her future…”

“I am not entirely certain you are up to that, Mr. Wilcox. Perhaps I have made a mistake…”

“No mistake, Mr. Holmes. I am going to win over Molly Hooper, and, given mother’s approval, make her mine!”

Mother’s approval! The man was beginning to sound like Mycroft. Is this what romance was all about? The man now seemed about as romantic as a butterfly collector, about to add a prized specimen to his display. If mummy approved, that is! Sherlock decided to abandon all contact with the rather neurotic mommy’s boy with the dream of capturing a princess to keep in his tower. Where had he gone wrong? Perhaps he should ask John?

But, he hadn’t had time to consult his friend by the time Mycroft came to call at Baker Street, with a smug attitude, and a video to back it up. It had been raining that afternoon, rather heavily, in fact. Molly Hooper was pictured as she left St. Bart’s, on her way to the tube stop. As she left the building, she pulled the hood of her anorak over her head, as she had no umbrella. She never seemed to remember an umbrella. Quick as a flash, a figure approached her, lifted a rather large brolly over the two of them, still closed. When he finally opened it, the couple was showered with daisies. It did seem to be a rather romantic gesture, Sherlock thought, a bit uneasily. But Molly looked a bit shocked. He could almost read her mind. What was the man doing waiting outside her workplace? How did he know about the daisies? When he reached to grab her hand to kiss it, she pulled away from the shelter of the umbrella, stepped quickly to the street, and hailed a cab. Jason Wilcox quickly followed her, grabbing at her arm. Molly now looked a bit frightened as she shook him off, and climbed quickly into the vehicle.

“I take it this was your doing, Sherlock? Part of your campaign to marry off your pathologist?” Mycroft asked with a smirk.

“Not that, I assure you. Molly did seem a bit put off by that, don’t you think?”

“A bit, yes. Let me ask you. You selected this, uh, gentleman?”

“Yes, brother. A perfectly logical and attractive choice, at least on paper.”

“Attractive, eh. Short, brown hair, brown eyes. Altruistic occupation. Kindly manner. Friendly. Sounds more like someone to whom you should be attracted, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mycroft!”

“Come now, brother, add some breasts and subtract the crazy, and you have a clone of Molly Hooper, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are you saying that my pathologist is so egotistical that she would be attracted to herself?”

“No, brother, I am saying that you assume she would be attracted to that type because YOU are attracted to that type. Perhaps you should consider Dr. Hooper’s true inclinations. Tall, brilliant, good looking, fit, arrogant, and idiotic!”

“That type would not be good for her, brother, as you well know. In any case, I have retired from my efforts to provide Molly Hooper with a ‘happily ever after’...”

“Perhaps you should try doing it without resorting to this surrogacy program, Sherlock.”

“Meaning?”

“DIY, brother! Do it yourself!”

Sherlock was still considering his brother’s word the next morning, when he received a text from DI Greg Lestrade. 

INCIDENT AT BART’S INVOLVING MOLLY HOOPER - GREG

ON MY WAY - SHERLOCK

When he arrived at the hospital, the detective found Lestrade, and John, conversing in the morgue, laughing a bit. From their currently somewhat jovial manner, he could only assume that the situation was not serious. But as he did not see Molly immediately, he approached his friends to find out her whereabouts.

“You said Molly was involved, Graham? Where is she?”

“She’ll be along in a shortly. She’s seeing to someone at the moment. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be in any hurry to see her, mate.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Well, it seems that when she entered the lab, there was a cadaver on a slab, zipped up in a body bag, with no documentation. She lowered the zipper to have a look, and found some guy lying there with a big lily in his hand on his chest. He sat bolt upright, and grabbed at her, saying he wanted to take care of her, give her babies, take her home to his mother, and a bunch of other nonsense. He kept grabbing her, and blubbering on. She got scared, and sprayed him with pepper spray. Security showed up to restrain him, and that’s when he said that, and I quote, ‘Mr. Holmes warned me about her right hook!’ “ Lestrade finished his speech, as John Watson shook his head and snickered. “I would say you have some explaining to do, Sherlock.”

The veracity of this statement was underscored as Molly exited her office shouting, “Sherlock Holmes, stay right where you are!”

Sherlock, his back still to the approaching figure, brought himself up to his full height, took a deep breath, and turned around. “Hello, Molly. Is something bothering you?”

“So, Sherlock, you’re siccing stalkers on me now? May I ask why?”

“Ah, I can only assume you’re talking about Mr. Wilcox. I can assure you he is not a stalker, per se, merely, it would seem, an over anxious suitor.”

“And what role did you play in Mr. Wilcox becoming a suitor in the first place, Sherlock. Do I seem so pathetic that I need your assistance in attracting suitors?”

“Not at all, Dr. Hooper. In the past you have attracted many suitors, most of which were unsuitable. Unsuitable suitors. I like the sound of that…”

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, well, lately it has come to my attention that you may have, shall we say, given up on, uh, romance, sentiment, love, as it were…” He was distracted by the sight of Molly trying to look around him to John Watson, who was trying to make himself seem even shorter than he was, at the same time attempting to hide himself behind DI Lestrade.

“I doesn’t matter how this came to my attention, Molly, but I determined that this was not a desireable course of action. You have always wanted a home, and a family, and children. You, more than anyone I know, are suited to that kind of life. You deserve to have it. So I took it upon myself to provide you with such a life. I must admit that, in hindsight, Mr. Wilcox may not have been the best choice…”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Well, Molly, he seemed perfectly normal, at least at first. You must admit that you did seem intrigued at your first meeting…”

“You son of a bitch! You told him about my special coffee order! You set up that whole thing…”

“It was a ‘meet-cute’ scenario, just like in the insipid movies you watch all the time, Molly. I thought you’d like it…”

“It was kind of creepy, Sherlock. He kept talking about fate, and destiny, and all I wanted was a bloody cup of coffee!”

“You let him give you his number!” Sherlock pointed out, meaning it as some small point in his favor. Yet, even to his ears, it almost sounded like an mild accusation.

“He wouldn’t let me leave without my doing so! And then he followed me back to my office. I was getting ready to call security, for god’s sake!” Molly then looked as if something else had just dawned on her. “The daisies! In the umbrella! You told him they were my favorite flowers, didn’t you? My god, he was stalking me, and you helped him! Do you want to see my emails, Sherlock? He was selecting names for our children! And suggesting improvements in my hairstyles! Did you know his mother, who he informed me, will live with us after our marriage, has already decided to call me by my real name, Margaret, as she says ‘Molly’ sounds too Irish, and she didn’t want any ‘bog hopper’ grandchildren…”

“How was I to know, Molly?”

“I suppose this is what you can expect to happen when a sociopath attempts to make a quality judgement involving love, sentiment, and romance. They pick a psychopath…”

“ ‘Psychopath’ may be a bit extreme a term, Dr. Hooper. Perhaps deluded, obsessive…”

“Sherlock! Shut up. Aside from your supposedly altruistic motives, although somewhere in there, I am sure, you were considering your access to the morgue, the lab, and various body parts, you had no right whatsoever to presume to know my tastes in men. I know my tastes in men, and believe, Jason Wilcox, is not it!”

“I do have several other viable alternatives, Molly, if you will allow me to…”

“Are any of them tall, clever, beautiful, and utterly obnoxious?”

“Only one, it seems. And I am quite sure he would never make the final cut. How do you feel about a middle-aged veterinarian from the West End? He’s a bit taller than poor Jason, and his mother is deceased. Also, this possibility offers the added advantage of a huge discount on the vet bills for the clowder of cats which I understand you intend to accumulate.”

Once again, Molly glared daggers at John Watson, before asking the detective, “Eye color?”

“Brown. I thought they might remind you of chocolate. You like chocolate.”

“I prefer blue-green eyes, as you well know.”

“Molly, you are thinning out my list of possibilities. How do you feel about blonds?”

“Nope. Dark hair, with curls, of course.”

“I do have one gentleman on the list who somewhat meets your requirements. Quite a large build. Very muscular, bulging biceps. You’d be the envy of every woman on the beach…”

“I prefer a slim, but fit, build, Sherlock. Surely you can come up with at least one suggestion?”

“Alas, that leaves only one possibility. But there are some drawbacks. Not only is he obnoxious, but his elder brother is even more so. HIs mother is still alive, but she carries no prejudice against your Irish sounding name. He is rather set in his ways, a social abomination, and he hates cats. He would probably tolerate no more than three or four. The same thing goes for children, by the way.”

“How does he feel about cadavers?”

“He has more than a nodding acquaintance with them, Molly, and finds them rather more interesting than most people.”

“He sounds perfect!”

“Ah, that’s another one of his problems, Dr. Hooper. He, too, thinks he is perfect. Perhaps you can take him down a peg or two?”

“I’d be more than willing to try. When can I start?”

Sherlock took a couple of steps toward her, and scooped her up in his arms, bridal style. “What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?”

“Being romantic, Dr. Hooper. I don’t have much practice, but I am a quick learner.”

“It won’t be very romantic when you drop me on my bum, you git,” Molly said breathlessly as she was carried through the swinging doors, out into the hallway, and toward the street.

“Ah, but it could be very romantic, Molly, when I kiss it to make it all better!”

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my blog at HooperandHolmes.wordpress.com


End file.
